plummeting, the dude, from one country (to another) (better made
up)),

to fall completely (into something));

but we must assume

the pure reality of this topography;

to see it from the inside out;

closing our eyes so that those muddy/plains

won't flee;

we must dream in the middle of a railway

two border patrolmen,

down there,

in dark uniform like a misguided winter,

dream there are no more leaves but loose tar threads/melted

are there, hanging from a tree,

and that amid this we fall;

we are nothing

in these seasons;

in the dream there is no doubt about the strict
effectiveness of customs officers;

if you look carefully you will see that one wears short
sleeves

and the other yawns, almost/and between the two,

effective/strict,

they ask us for leave to pass, for papers, stamping/each;

• my name must be Luis and I must not have died

the guards have my name;

Guard (1) (and) (2);

a shiny uniform;

dazzling buttons on the shirt front;

the strength to silence me the strength to fasten me to a
button hole/the strength

to talk fast and tell a lie

that may destroy me;

Guard (1): the citizen has brown eyes;

Guard (2): you seem young but you're older than you
look
So you're older than you say you are
And more ancient than I say;

there's cold outside

(also in the dream);

Guard (1) (and) (2) tell me the first rule is to look at

everything from afar;

because I won't get in;

(to die;)

they'll carve up my skull with an axe;

(another rule;)

in brine they will store my eyes

so they won't see the new

trees the green seasons;

(to die;)

that a tombstone won't talk about me; (third rule;)

what was mine will be auctioned;

what isn't will have safe-conduct;

only shouting something of his own will he cross and stick

beyond the lips

to a mountain a tree that juts out

next to a cliff;

I can only be the echo between them

if I yell my name;

what river is that, visible in the map/

if I yelled my name;

this blue meander/

if I yelled my name;

that lead wound;

my mouth is shut and before me, the guards stand at
attention like pines; I put my hands in my pockets; it's already warmer;
outside; I'd like to start counting and never stop, but I forget many things,
numbers remain stuck to a remote wall, in my head; I don't have brown eyes; I'm
as old as I will repeat all the time until my next birthday, in a few months,
almost a whole year; but what's my name;

what name if I yelled my name could yell my name

as though eternal,

here,

next to the rails

(an express goes by) (in the dream)

(and empty)

what single syllables,

what that I don't stop,

that I don't throw myself to the ground like an angel, hook
in hand,

for the mere illusion of holding on to

an electric cable or the parapet of a big bridge,

the ravings of a land marked like a card marked for you

and with no wires

for a stranger I am, and a sojourner

From En defensa del desgaste, Ediciones Mucuglifo / Ediciones Solar. You can read an interview with LMV in Spanish here.

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